They thought they knew all there was to know. They thought they knew almost everyone worth knowing. They couldn’t yet be fully aware of it, but to a large extent the perfection of their youth was beginning to flower: the vigor, the good health, the vital confidence as yet unjustifiable, the arrogance unfounded. But to paraphrase Thomas Wolfe, with whose Web and the Rock many of our classmates walked about for the months it took them to read the tome, they were the lords of life. They were plunging into their twenties, the threshold of adulthood, and they were the lords of life.1
That year in graduate school saw a definitive dilution of academia, as well as of interesting and lively characters. I did befriend, for only a brief interval, a thoughtful and perceptive young man. He was older than I and seemed to have already suffered a sampling of what the cruel side of life had in store. He had been in the Merchant Marine and told of an old salt whom he recalled jawing with on the bridge as he was being relieved of his watch. The old sailor said to him: “You know, lad, there’s only one thing you have that I don’t have…and that’s your youth. And that will soon be gone.” Perry said its truthful ring gave him the chills and it was something he hadn’t forgotten. 2
At the party Perry had invited me to I encountered the usual suspects, as students’ panache preceded their flaunted forms. It was difficult to know whether conversations on essence preceded those on existence, or whether those on existence preceded those on essence. It made no difference, of course, but was taken seriously by those participating. Rye and Gingers grew flat, CC and sodas got warm, as ice melted. The room grew smokier as introductions going nowhere persisted. The evening dissolved.3
There were no fresh nor pretty faces that night so I hacked a path through the crowd to the door. It was open, and beyond the exit's threshold the yawning hallway gaped hollow and depressing. It was there, at this social bottleneck, that I ran into Manny Dunzler. I hadn’t seen Dunzler since Junior High School in Washington Heights and we had advanced, apparently by a neighborhood or two, and several years. Hopefully, we had also matured somewhat. Dunzler was likeable enough and offered a genuine smile as we shook hands and did a quick catching up. But he had initiated a pointless incident years ago for which I detested him. From the warmth of his greeting it seemed as if he had forgotten all about it, about as justifiably as when he precipitated it. But I had not forgotten.4
I had been on my way back to school for the afternoon session after lunching alone on 181st street, at the Horn & Hardart Automat. From across the street I heard a yell. It was Manny Dunzler and two of his friends. Although we were not fast friends I stopped to wait. One of Dunzler’s pals grabbed me from behind and Dunzler, without provocation, punched me in the gut. I struggled uselessly and glowered at him. Before his buddy would let me go Dunzler extended his hand in friendship.5
“Hey,” he said. “I’m really sorry. You okay? If he lets go, you wanna shake?” And here he gestured with his extended hand. It made no sense, but I didn’t seem to have much choice and in view of being outnumbered it seemed to be a way of cutting my losses. 6
“Okay,” I said. And the boy behind me loosened his hold around my arms. Dunzler smiled. I shook his hand. He tightened his grip and swiped me in the face with his fist. He took a few skipping steps backward and, with his cohorts, ran away as I felt the warm trickle of blood from my nose. I never forgot Dunzler’s leering and my indignity of having been so badly duped. I had seen him in hallways and staging areas for the next few months spent at JHS 115, but our unresolved rancor was never addressed. Whatever may have instigated the incident remained a mystery which seemed eventually to dissolve, but, like after much evaporation, left a residue. 7
I was saying goodbye to Dunzler, nice having run into him and all, when a tall, lean redheaded young man, a late comer, stepped into the apartment. The guy looked more than familiar although I had not seen him in at least a dozen years. He appeared handsome and distinguished in his dark overcoat, as well as successful. Holy cow! It was old Zack Miles. They called him Miles in the old neighborhood. His real name was Milowitz. 8
“Say,” I said to him as he looked, perplexed, at me. “Aren’t you Zack Miles?” For years I thought his first name was actually Miles. It was only later that I learned his first name was Zack and only later still that his real last name was Milowitz. I introduced myself and complemented my name with a mention of the old neighborhood. Recognition dawned as he smiled and extended a hand in friendship, if only for old times. We shook hands, showcasing our matured grips.9
“Of course,” he said. “I remember. How have you been? What are you doing?” He had just graduated from Law School and was on the road to life. It had an enviable ring to it. We did the abbreviated little party dance, tagged with the door thing, underscored in its absurdity, considering I would never see most of these people again. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the sofa people still engrossed in their existential discussions. Almost through the crush at the door, I was overheated, and couldn’t wait to leave and breathe fresh, night air. Miles removed his coat, made his way into the party and I left.10
The hallway was dark. The hum of the elevator remained in my ear, well into the street. The subway was several blocks away and, at one in the morning, seemed even more distant. As I approached the desolate station I became aware of the dull but persistent throb of a growing headache. 11
There weren’t many passengers aboard the train when it finally arrived. I sat quietly as the long trip to my downtown Manhattan destination began. The passenger across from me was a homeless man, not especially menacing, but whose type had always stirred a kind of romantic wonder in me. Where was he from? What had brought him to this point in his life? Where was he going? Would he get there? Was the responsibility his? But instead of contemplating the man with romantic wonder, I found his quiet presence to cause in me growing anxiety and a distress. The more I tried to ignore it the worse my headache became. The pulsating did not abate.12
When I arrived home I threw myself on the mercy of my bed. But the headache would not let me rest. I took aspirin and had a tall icy cola but the pain lingered. I went back to bed and tossed. The throbbing grew worse. When, I thought, did this start? What could have precipitated it? It was accompanied by a dreadful anxiety and a growing nausea. I felt extremely miserable. And it seemed to have been an uneventful, if not otherwise pleasant evening. Or was it? I thought it through. Seeing Manny Dunzler had annoyed me, was unpleasant, and raised some tension. But I had been aware of that. In truth, I didn’t want to shake his hand; I would rather have taken a whack at his face. But although I contained my feeling, I hadn’t really repressed it. I knew all along who he was, and I still didn’t like him. I was going through the motions. Being civil; grown up.13
The headache seemed to get worse. Like a migraine. It was almost as if it were trying to tell me something. Then I remembered. There was a sudden surge of awareness; a release of pressure. Zack Miles. I had shaken hands with him, too. It happened so soon on the heels of Dunzler; too quickly for me to have regained my psychological bearings. 14
For at least a couple of Halloweens, the celebrations had ceased to be fun and had given way to a kind of mini-terrorism. Venturing out and onto the streets of the neighborhood meant becoming prey to the older kids. The younger ones laid themselves open to a number of taunts. Zack Miles’ favorite weapon was a long sock filled with ground chalk. He stalked the neighborhood and you never knew where he would appear. If he saw you, you were chalk dust. New jacket, suede jacket, wool jacket: Casper. Zack was my terror of Halloween. 15
It was a few days following a chalk drubbing that Zack extended a hand in friendship toward me. I was only about six years old but had my misgivings about any peace offering from him. I was, furthermore, well aware of the neighborhood’s latest trick which could be perpetrated on an unsuspecting dupe by a more savvy wise guy. 16
“You’re going to twist my arm,” I said. 17
“No I won’t,” said Zack. “I promise.”18
I had just got a new cap gun, one of the few, new, metal guns made after the war. 19
“I know you’ll twist my arm,” I insisted.20
“I swear I won’t hurt you,” said Zack. “If I do, you can hit me back.” He extended his hand.21
I shook Zack Miles’ hand and he ducked beneath the two hands, turning about, twisting my arm. He no sooner had let it go than I swung wildly at his head…with my cap gun. Miles moved back but the pistol smacked his nose. It bled. He stood in shock. I said, “You said I could,” but I had not foreseen the bloody consequence of my action. I regretted what I had done. And I think from that day I had been a pariah to Zack Miles. 22
The moment I recalled the event, the migraine vanished. I opened my window replacing the headache with fresh, night air.23
Some years later, passing a Walden bookshop in a mall, I wondered what had become of us lords of life. Whimsically, I thought, I would check the passage in Wolfe’s Web and The Rock. I remembered, on his 21st birthday, George Webber stood at the foot of the 42d Street Library. He was “the Lord of Life.” There was no such volume in the section marked “Literature”. I asked the manager.24
“Thomas Wolfe, of course. Follow me.” 25
He took me all the way to the back of the store, to a section marked Social Studies. Social Studies? Reaching down he retrieved a copy of Tom Wolfe’s “A Man in Full.”26
“Wrong Wolfe,” I said.27
“Oh. Sorry. I don’t know the other."28
Obviously, I thought. So much for the lords of life. All of them.29
Author notes
So many miss the point on this story. But it isn't SW's usual fare. The point is...that repressed GUILT...AND...RAGE...must be uncovered and addressed. It WILL out! And even though these are TWO opposite feelings...and they usually do not co-exist...they CAN do so. And when they do, conflict occurs. And...when THAT happens, the result is a good, stiff, headache...AT LEAST!
This is the story of a coming of age...physically, socially, philosophically, and psychologically. The young men who prematurely thought of themselves as the "lords of life"...as Perry's old salt seaman suggested, had some other thoughts coming...had some life lessons to learn. This story was dealing with, addressing, uncovering and resolving at least two of them:How to uncover and recognize, and what to do with RAGE...and GUILT. It isn't always easy...as the story reveals...or tries to reveal...and stories like this aren't always easy. But, that's how you learn things. Read it again, knowing this. Perhaps you'll see it for what it tries to convey.
Thanks again,
GA
And...the "secret" OPTION word is: "REMEMBER"
A contest entry
- Choices! by Writing0Freedom.
825 points, ended August 12, 19 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Real... As Real As Real Can Get by VioletHill.
460 points, ended August 11, 13 entries
Honorable winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Eh...I have no idea what to call this contest... by donuts-and-music.
175 points, ends November 30, 18 entries
• next story in this contest, • Add to finalists list, or remove from contest
IF YOU ARE CONFUSED...OR FEEL YOU MAY HAVE MISSED THE POINT...SEE AUTHOR'S NOTES.
Comments
1 - 26 of 26
-
Well written, but somewhat hard to keep track of. You give us a lot of false starts, take us down paths that don't ever get any kind of end. I'm interested in the motivations of your antagonists, but they stand somewhat stagnant, their characters somewhat less than they could be for their lack of reason.
For what it's worth, the idea presented at the beginning does come full circle at the end, but I miss at its relevance to the rest of the story, perhaps because I've not read the work in question.
. Rewarded 8
-
Another very well done piece. I really can't add anything to what previous commentators have written. They have covered it all. I, fortunately, was never bullied in school. I was mostly ignored. I didn't fit in with any group, so I spent most of my time alone. In fact, I still do!
. Rewarded 6
-
Oh, this was nice. My head actually started throbbing when I read the migraine part; I get them infrequently, although, never from trying to sort out a forgotten memory.
I appreciated how you made the party seem repeatedly too hot and stuffy, as if the thought were recurring to your mind even as you stood at the door and chatted, so close to your goal of escape.
Well done.. Rewarded 6
-
Well written
This was detailed and extemely well written. When I first started reading it, however, I was comparing how you wrote it to how similar it was to Nathanial Hawthorne, author of "The Scarlet Letter," which was indeed a good book, however it also was a long and painful book to read, but as your story progressed, I found that instead of being painful to read, it was actually quite captivating, and a rather good short story.
-
Splendid story.
From start to finish a superb story. Written so well. Lucid, enjoyable.
-
Congrats, youve won the honarable mention! I told you I loved it!
-
Wow this is really good. I had no idea fear from a couple of childhood incidents could reach that far into the future. I'm amazed how at how well written this is. I really like all the allusions to Lords of Life and Wolfe, don't really understand it but I really like it. Thanks for entering! Brilliant piece of work!
WritingFree -
Excellent Read
I enjoyed your story. Older adults will probably relate, especially those of us who yearn for the days when we feared and when we were feared. It's amazing how the emotion of fear can etch a memory far deeper than the emotion of joy. While joy and happiness flees...fear remains etched in our minds.
Keep on writing,
Peace.. Rewarded 6
-
very nice, good job =]
-
The Alarm.
I needed something to read to wake me up this morning; I am still abit drowsey. -
An interesting bit of literary prose.
Fairly well-written bit of social introspection. I especially enjoy paragraph 3, and the little background stories.
However, aforementioned background stories seem like they would be so much better off if they had been told less in summary. The one with Zack Miles plays better, using good amounts of dialogue and description. You actually feel more like you're re-living that one, where the one with Dunzler isn't nearly as involved.
Also, there are a number of paragraphs in this that need to be split in half. Their current size is both cumbersome and ineffectual, as you seem to change subject almost exactly halfway through the paragraph. 4 and 13 are prime paragraphs for this bit of structural surgery.
...also, I have to wonder what the point of your border and background was. The tree in the background makes a bit of sense, but the border on the left is thematically out of place.
I also noted some sentences that could use commas, and a couple instances where you used "ok" when you should've used "okay." And there should be a quotation mark at the end of paragraph 28.
Otherwise, fairly nifty.
. Rewarded 8
-
I had a little laugh over the debate on whether conversations of essence preceded those on existence.
Your narrator seemed about as real to me as I think would be possible. You really summoned up a milieu for me, and the entire story was quite subdued. This is probably more literate than anything I could write at the moment. I wonder, though, if you shouldn't be a little more explicit about the relationship of the narrator to these 'lords of life'. I guess we can assume from paragraph two that he went to graduate school with these people, and we know that he grew up with some of them, but it's not really clear whether he regards himself as having been among their number. From the wording of the ending, it seems perhaps not, as the narrator says "All of them," and not "All of us." He also seems to keep himself rather distanced from them in some respects. So I wonder how his way of seeing himself differs from the way of these "lords of life." What exactly is it that set him apart. From the flashbacks, it seems perhaps that he was something of an outsider socially when growing up, but I can't be certain that translates into his adult life. Perhaps some mention of what he does or how he lives his life is in order.
That said, I really think the background and text seem like a gaudy adornment for such an involving character study. When I see pictures of faces bleeding tears beside a story, I often will not read the story just based on that.
Mik -
Nice read, I was verbally bullied all through my years of school, but usually turned back to physical bullying to get even lol. Anyways I may not know what being physically bullied feels like, but I can relate. I also can relate to how unsettling it is to speak with a bully later on in life and find that they remember nothing of what they did, although you never forget, because how can one forget something painful or upsetting? Sometimes it's hard to move on even if it is the best way to go.
Oh, and I defiantly agree with Reel Treble, your character was very well developed. Thanks for the read, I enjoyed it a lot.
-
Very intersting read - I'm embarassed to admit - I was probablly one of those who did some verbal bullying in school- girls will be cats sometimes great piece.
-
Hmm. The bullying I could relate to, although my experiences were more verbal than physical.
I found the handshakes--and the stories behind the young men--to be quite interesting. It's funny how as you grow, you find that society expects you to be more and more civil to others... whether you like them or not. It's also interesting to find that some people "forget" the past, while others never do.
Your protagonist seemed very well developed, and I liked him a lot.
The ending paragraphs of the piece, though, confused me. I didn't quite understand them; I don't think I've ever read anything by Thomas Wolfe. I loved the ending line, though.
Thank you for sharing.
-
Interesting.
This reads very well and kept my attention. I was somewhat entertained. So your hero got even with Zack Miles. It seems that he got the best of him. I'm not familiar with Wolfe's book, so I couldn't really relate to that. I could relate to being bullied, but I only once got even with someone who bullied me. I'm not certain what my type of reading is, but I enjoyed this story. I'm hopefully expanding my reading genres as well as my writing styles.
Andy
-
A strange story, and an interesting one. It has a sort of bitterness to it, I feel, with every handshake being just a veil to hide a malicious intent.
Very professional work, too.
To nitpick about trivialities, the faded pink is a bit too light for the background, and it's tiresome to the eyes to read.
. Rewarded 6
-
Sentences I like :-)-----The room grew smokier as introductions going nowhere persisted.-----From the corner of my eye, I noticed the sofa people still engrossed in their existential discussions.
Something weird about the use of "pariah" in this one. -----And I think from that day I had been a pariah to Zack Miles. 22
It was interesting, but the tone was flat. I'd like to see you try to write something completely different one day. Different tone, style, length--try on a different voice. That would be interesting!
-
Very nicely written.
Once again you bring the ghosts to life. Without giving them too much detail, perhaps because of this fact, you give us people that we can relate to - because we've all known them in our own lives.
I liked the small photo at the start - it gave me a datum from where to take the story.
Thanks for sharing this with us.
GoNE
-
Perfect
May I ask what you are doing wasting your time on this site, when you could be getting published in the Real World?
No offence meant though.
This style of writing is a cut above the rest, and I'll be sure to look out for more.
The way you captured and tied together the past and the present was flawless, and your continual theme of 'the lords of life' provided continuity. Not only that, this story is one of only a few I have read that consists of more than a single layer of meaning.
Please consider publishing...
. Rewarded 8
-
This is, as with everything your fingers tippy tap out, marvelous. I can't pick a certain point where the present receded and I was lost in a past that I couldn't begin to fathom. You're talent isn't at all hidden, GA. It's like a shining star!
Grats on making me step through the mirror again, darling!
-
You have a talent for going back and bringing the past into the future.
A nice pleasant read on a rainy afternoon.
You have a talent for going back and bringing the past into the future. While I was reading the beginning and then at the party, the words of a song keep coming to mind.
You are not going to believe what they were
‘Gentlemen songsters out on a spree doomed from here to eternity.’ I laughed at myself, since your trip in time had no connection to Yale.
What brought that into my head was the idea of an older gentleman coming face to face with a childhood nemesis and being forced by maturity to act civil towards him. One instant in a night would be bad enough, but you subjected your character, (or was that you?) to a double dose.
No wonder he had a migraine. I was glad the memory of what he did to the bully relieved his headache.
I didn’t understand the reason for the homeless man, but it seemed to fit in as a sidebar and complimented the plot.
As always you write an interesting tale.
Geri
-
I really enjoyed this. You write with clarity and purpose. Yet another one of your stories I have enjoyed reading. "The lords of life." Interesting phrase, one for you to keep, I think.
Lis.
-
A Telling Tale
I like the expression lords of life. That really does say it all when you are young and feeling invincible. Yet in the grand scheme, what does it really matter. Just like in the end of your story.
-
Hey it that really you in the picture?
There is at least one person from every section in my life I have not forgotten nore forgiven. And that says alot for a very nice girl(me).
Great piece.
Brooke
Adding your comment:
1 - 26 of 26
